


Hey Mama

by Kemmasandi



Series: Flags [9]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Humor, Other, Sticky Sex, tons o' fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet looks after things, and enjoys life with Optimus in his own special way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Mama

**Author's Note:**

> Twelve ficlets written to the tune of some silly titles I gave my collection of Ratchet/Optimus pics. Have been posting them individually on tumblr, but they're so short I may as well put them all in the same work here and elsewhere...

_i. a housewife’s work is never done_

Hands on his hips and mouth open in an interrupted exclamation, Ratchet stared with wide optics. A step back and a forced reboot of his optics did not rectify the scene in front of him, in fact—was that his favourite set of needlenose pliers over there?—it made it worse.

A quick look at Bulkhead cowering in the corner made it clear his usual scapegoat was not to blame this time. Not totally, at least. Beside the ex-Wrecker, Miko crouched, her brown eyes wide in what could be understated as utter glee. There were strands of something pink and vaguely stringy draped all over both miscreants, and indeed the entire room.

Something moved, way back in the shadows at the rear of the old boiler room. A mostly-white figure emerged from the darkness like a herald of ancient doom, walking backwards, tugging an old porter’s trolley piled high with bits of streaky, melted plastic, all of it covered with the same pink threads as everything else.  
Wheeljack. Well, it had been oddly quiet lately.

Ratchet ground his dentae together, stepping forward into the blast radius. A tin can knocked against his pede, the resulting clang ringing mournfully through the room. Wheeljack spun, his scarred face breaking into a wicked grin when he caught sight of Ratchet.

“Well, how’s it goin’, Sunshine?” The doorwinged menace to society and all things vaguely flammable gave Ratchet a tiny wave. Black soot streaked his lean frame. “’fraid if you’ve come ta see the Device, it’s not here anymore. See the doormech an’ he’ll give you your money back.”

Ratchet’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but outrage seemed to have muted his vocaliser.

 _“I,”_ he managed a snarl at last, “am not cleaning this up.”

\--++--++--

_ii. hey mama, how you doin’?_

The base-wide Decepticon alert went off at an unholy hour of the morning, dragging Ratchet from comfortable dreams of petrorabbits and energon candies. By the time he’d fully booted up, he was alone in the berth, his optics onlining just in time to catch Optimus’ heels disappearing out of his quarters.

Their quarters, he should say. Optimus spent more of his downtime in Ratchet’s quarters than his own these days.

He hauled himself to his pedes, a quiet groan, static-edged, bleeding from his vocaliser, and followed his Prime out the door, down the hallway to Ops. He was awake, he may as well be doing something, and they were likely to need a ground bridge operator, comms monitor, team coordinator besides. A medic too, if they were unlucky. 

Down in Ops, Optimus was on all communicator channels, giving quick orders to Arcee while he spoke to a bleary-eyed Agent Fowler through the teleconference screen. The Decepticons were in South America somewhere, Ratchet gathered, casually eavesdropping. A Brazilian military installation was reporting what sounded like a small skirmishing force, primarily made up of flighted drones.

He fired up the ground bridge and put the portal on standby. Optimus pinged him the coordinates, which as it turned out were off the mark by almost a kilometre—not nearly precise enough to risk bridging in on. Without missing a beat, Ratchet plugged himself into the terminal and remotely logged onto one of his tame GPS satellites, pinpointing the installation and locking the bridge onto target. Wasn’t the first time he’d had to do that, and it wasn’t likely to be the last.

Agent Fowler wound up his report as Arcee, Bumblebee and the two Wreckers disappeared into the arms room, stocking up on last-minute equipment. The screen went dark, and suddenly Optimus was behind Ratchet, arms wrapped around his waist, leaning down against him. Ratchet turned his head and gave Optimus a startled look out the corner of his optics, field flashing a silent question as the Prime pressed a quick kiss to the side of his mouth, thumbs brushing over the slats on Ratchet’s grill.

“We may need you in the field today,” he murmured, one hand sliding downward, coming to rest on the side of Ratchet’s hip. “There are reports that the Decepticons have some strange device, and it is our hope that we may be able to relieve them of it. To identify it, we’ll need your expertise.”

“Right,” Ratchet said, spark executing a sudden constricted flop of nerves. “I’ll do what needs to be done, Optimus.”

“Yes, you will.” Optimus kissed him again, just a quick brush of lips before he pulled away entirely. “Of that I have no doubts.” 

\--++--++--

_iii. you’re sleeping on the couch for a week, buster!_

The ‘Cons’ strange device turned out to be a bomb. Ratchet gladly and quickly relinquished inspection duty to Wheeljack, knowing the Wrecker had considerably more experience with explosives than he.

In hindsight, he probably should have remembered what most of this experience consisted of.

There was a clank. A loud, mournful clank, full of the promise of fiery doom. Wheeljack swore, turning and throwing himself into alt-mode, engine gunned to the max as he raced away. Arcee ducked behind a nearby concrete bunker; Bulkhead transformed and joined Wheeljack in running for the hills. Ratchet spun, scanning the complex for shelter as he ran. Bumblebee overtook him, scout-fast, headed for the thirty-foot drop lining the river on the north side of the complex. Ratchet threw caution to the wind and ran after him. He managed perhaps two steps on his own before strong arms swept him off his feet.

“This way!” he heard Optimus say, throwing his arms around the Prime’s shoulders and hanging on for dear life—Primus, but Optimus could run! He counted three steps that jarred the world in his perception before there was a terrible weightless moment and they were skidding down a near-vertical face, their combined weight when they hit the ground beside Bumblebeee enough to dump Optimus on his aft, Ratchet sprawled ungainly in his lap.

Then the bomb went off, a dull _whoomph_ that echoed between the surrounding hills before the air slammed down on them with enough pressure to send Ratchet’s barometrics spinning sky-high. He instinctively curled in against Optimus, whose arms had tightened convulsively around him. 

Several seconds passed before Ratchet’s sensors stopped going haywire, enough that he felt up to risking a peek through squinted optics. Nothing appeared to have fallen on them, aside from a few clods of dirt knocked loose by the explosion. Ratchet flicked a fairly large clump off his chest as faint Portuguese curses filled the air, several humans spilling from the riverside guard station not fifty metres away.

“I truly could have gotten here by myself, you know,” he said, pushing his displeasure through his field at a wavelength he knew didn’t resonate well with Optimus. The Prime’s aborted wince didn’t make him feel much better, but at least he got a certain sort of vindictive pleasure out of it. It was far too early in the morning for grumpy medics to go running from bombs.

The fact that Bumblebee kept giving him looks that were far too amused for the scout’s own good certainly did not help. Ratchet looked pointedly down at Optimus’ arm, still tucked securely around the back of Ratchet’s thighs in what the humans referred to as a bridal-carry… no wonder the humans were beginning to stare. 

Field flaring an apology, but otherwise oddly silent, Optimus let go of him. Ratchet clambered upright, too tired to care.

\--++--++-- 

_iv. let me make it up to you_

Optimus caught Ratchet around six-thirty, half an hour before their shifts were due to start. The medbay was deserted, to Ratchet’s everlasting gratitude; there was no-one there to witness it as, with a deft tug and a cacophony of clanks, Optimus snagged him by the waist and dragged him into the shadowy corner to sprawl out in a tangle of limbs across his own med-berth.

“I apologise for my tactless handling of you, earlier,” Optimus murmured, voice low and shivered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm. “It was not my intention to embarrass or insult you.” He’d arranged them with himself underneath, Ratchet lying over his chest—deliberately, Ratchet knew, and he couldn’t help but be mollified by the gesture.

“I know,” he replied, and let his hands, since pressed against Optimus’ shoulders for balance, wander down the Prime’s frame. “You were just trying to protect me.”

“Nevertheless, I still should not have acted the way I did.” But Optimus made to move to check Ratchet’s progress. 

Just as well, Ratchet thought mutinously, flattening his palms over the Prime’s abdomen, using the leverage to push himself further up. “Look, I didn’t like it, but it’s done now, so stop kicking yourself over it. There’s always going to be things you do that I don’t agree with, and I was under the impression that that was why you liked my company so much, since I’m always going to speak up when I do.” He rested for a moment over Optimus, fingers digging into the seams between plating. “There are bigger things you could be using all that worry for, you know.”

Optimus hummed, low and pleased. “I enjoy your company because I love you and find you interesting to spend time with. However, you have a fair point.”

“Which one?” Ratchet asked, easing the tangle of their legs apart so that he straddled the big dexter’s hips. Optimus’ arms automatically came up to wrap around his lower back, drifting just a little too low in Ratchet’s critical view… “Touch my aft and die painfully.”

The wandering servos stilled immediately. “All of them. Will you permit me to touch you, Ratchet?” Optimus’ expression was innocent, wide-opticked and sincere.

“No.” Ratchet sat up further, and dug his fingertips into the wide lateral seams just above Optimus’ hips. The Prime made an odd noise, something between a yelp and a pleasured groan. “I believe today I want to be the one touching you.”

He stumbled into the medbay half an hour later, reeking ozone and tired satisfaction. Well, it had been worth a try.

\--++--++--

_v. i worry sometimes, you know_

There was a moment, that afternoon, where everything was calm and peaceful. It wouldn’t last—the children were on their way back from school, and Ratchet wondered when in the Pit a sentence like that had started feeling _right_ —but for now, it was. And he had no idea how to deal with it.

Optimus gave him a long look when he said as much, and rose, walking steadily around the medbay until he stood within easy arm’s reach of Ratchet, not quite close enough to be unprofessional but easily close enough that his presence offered comfort, a silent guard. “We have become far too used to crises,” he said, watching as Ratchet fiddled with a broken datapad. “I myself cannot experience total calm without preparing myself, consciously and unconsciously, for such a crisis to follow. The humans have a very apt term for it: ‘the calm before the storm.’”

Ratchet sighed, and switched out his index finger for an electromagnetic screwdriver. “Hurricane Miko,” he said wryly. “Surely she counts.”

Optimus somber expression twitched, his optics narrowing in silent amusement. “I must admit I find her lively enthusiasm inspiring. On a good day, that is.”

“That’s because you’re not the one who has to clean up after she and Bulkhead have been through,” Ratchet groused. “Hmph. Hold this for me.” He thrust the datapad into Optimus’ hands and turned, crouching and dragging out a box of spare parts from the dark depths beneath his workbench.

“Do they impede your ability to work that badly?” 

Ratchet groaned. “Occasionally,” he admitted. “For the most part it’s accidental, such as Bulkhead’s unfortunate tendency for breaking my tools. I’ve banned them from the med-bay, but I can’t ban them from Ops. It would help if either of them would stop to think before they act on their ideas, but I get the feeling that’s an even more alien concept to Miko than we are. Bulkhead’s not much better.”

“I see.” Optimus handed the datapad back as Ratchet stood, humming thoughtfully. “I believe I will talk to them about that today. They are more familiar with their thought processes than we are; perhaps they may have solutions of their own.”

“I’ll say that’s a long shot,” Ratchet muttered. 

A gentle touch to his helm made him look up. Optimus smiled down at him, fingers tracing affectionately down behind his audials.

“We will never know for sure,” he said, “unless we try.”

\--++--++--

_vi. this is why you lock the door, mama_

Optimus glanced down at Ratchet through the gloom, and there might have been just a tiny twinkle of mischief in those optics as the last Prime straddled his lap, interface panel clicking open. “Will you indulge me?”

Ratchet rolled his optics, but slid obligingly forward on the med-berth. “Everyone would be scandalized if they could see you now,” he said with a resigned smirk, one servo laid on Optimus’ hip to keep him in place while the other buried two digits to the third knuckle in the Prime’s valve. Optimus’ chassis was rapidly heating, but lack of stimulation had his valve mostly dry, charge nodes sparking electricity but internal calipers stiff and tight. He made an odd noise, a shuddering moan as Ratchet worked a third finger inside him, taking care to keep the rough invasion just this side of pain. A little discomfort went a long way as far as Optimus was concerned, but a valve’s delicate mechanisms were sensitive for a reason.

“I have decided,” Optimus began, pausing with narrowed optics as his hips jerked downwards in Ratchet’s hold, lubricating valve clenching around Ratchet’s medic-sensitive digits, “that I do not care. One cannot live the way my predecessors were said to, exalted and alone. The Matrix’s memories would seem to agree.”

“Illicit lovers?” Ratchet chuckled. “Like me?” He punctuated his words with a calculated stretch, scissoring his fingers apart to mimic the stretch of a spike. Lubricant rushed to fill the gap, running down his palm and dripping from his wrist.

“Many. In comparison I would be considered restrained even if I were interfacing with the whole team rather than you alone.” Optimus rocked above him, humming in bliss as his valve clamped down. “The Golden-Age councils, before the Matrix was placed at the planetary core, seem to have turned a blind eye towards their Primes’ proclivities. Some encouraged them, presenting it to the public as an expression of life. Those memories are quite interesting, let me tell you.”

Ratchet pulled his fingers out with a wet _sclup_ , and retracted his own panel, his spike curving out between them, hot and ready. “More interesting than making our own?” he said, tipping his helm up to meet Optimus’ smouldering gaze.

A hand not his own wrapped around his spike, sliding in a gentle pull to the head. Optimus shifted, canting his hips so that he matched the angle, and guided Ratchet to his valve, slipping down onto him with a hiss of heated exvents. 

Ratchet groaned and shuttered his optics, thrusting up the rest of the way into that wonderful wet heat. Optimus’ field shimmered around him, white-edged blue with nirvana, the edge of the atmosphere. “I’m ready,” the Prime said, a gentle reminder, and reached down to kiss him.

There was a startled _beep!_ and the medbay door slammed, a flash of yellow throwing himself out so quickly Ratchet wondered if he’d really seen it past the bulk of Optimus’ shoulder. The noise startled a flinch out of both of them, Optimus’ valve cycling down around him and it was too good, Ratchet decided he didn’t care about being seen in such a compromising position. He pulled back and thrust again, and Optimus turned back to him, vocaliser singing with static pleasure. 

A couple of kliks and one brilliant overload later an uncharacteristically irate ping landed in Ratchet’s inbox, exhorting him in Bumblebee’s spidery glyphs to please lock the damn door next time. 

\--++--++--

_vii. make sure you know i love you_

Things started appearing on Ratchet’s workbench in mid-February. Little bits of rock: marble, feldspar, granites, layered compounds shot through with veins of flawed white crystal, pyrites, metal ores. Fascinating specimens, though none quite so fascinating as the pure mystery of how in the Pit they were getting onto his workbench of all places.

Ratchet had thought it was Miko at work, but the lack of anything remotely shiny or spectacular enough to attract the base’s resident adrenaline junkie had discouraged his theories. The sheer length of time the prank—if it indeed was one, it bore none of the traditional hallmarks of an Autobot prank—had continued was another black mark against that theory. Eighteen days, much longer than Miko’s usual attention span… and still it went on, a rather striking specimen of obsidian, sharp-edged and riddled with impurities, having landed on his workbench that very morning. 

Ratchet eventually fired up his frankensteined webcam-datapad hybrid and left it running for a couple of days, hoping to catch the miscreant on film. 

Which he did, eventually. It just wasn’t who he’d expected.

“Optimus, why in the Pit have you been leaving rocks on my bench?” It came out a little sharper than he’d intended, but thankfully Optimus didn’t seem to react much beyond a surprised look.

“You have not kept up with the human calendar lately?” The last of the Primes steepled his fingers and rested his joined servos on his knees, leaning forward over the edge of the med-berth. “I admit the current observed events are few and far between, but the concept of Valentine’s Day has me inspired.”

Ratchet huffed, running a quick search on the date through the Internet. Miko had been fussing about something suspiciously similar recently enough that Ratchet hadn’t yet archived the memory. “I try not to think about it too much. It’s something to do with chocolate?” he hazarded. Some of those search results looked suspect.

“The traditional gift, exchanged by lovers on the day,” Optimus explained, forwarding him a link to a site detailing the history of the holiday. “Useless to us, of course. I had considered candied energon, but I am far from a skilled distiller and we do not have the energon to spare.” 

“To give to me?” The earlier irritation drained away. Ratchet straightened, meeting Optimus’ gaze with surprise. “Why?”

Optimus stood, his field a thoughtful long-wave frequency, and approached Ratchet with the tiniest smile on his lips. “I cannot give you what you really want, not yet and likely not ever. However, I thought it over, and it seems a large part of the tradition is simply based around taking the time to appreciate the ones in our lives whom we love. The gifts are simply to mark this appreciation in a physical way, to let their recipients know that they are loved.”

Ratchet gave his workbench, and the rocks lined up along it, a considering look. “Yes, but… Optimus, it’s March. Valentine’s was three weeks ago now.”

“It was.” Optimus stopped in front of him, their fields tangling, bright with mutual affection. “I decided that one day was not enough. It is enough of a miracle that we have each other at all at this stage in our relationship, so I should endeavour to appreciate you whenever I could.”

“By bringing me rocks?” Ratchet’s confusion showed through in his field, and must have in his face as well, because Optimus’ field gave the peculiar shiver it often did to express amusement. 

“I find them a fitting gift. You and they have something in common, after all.”

Ratchet didn’t get to ask what he meant by that. The kiss kind of got in the way.

\--++--++--

_viii. relax, mama, you’re safe_

Ratchet shuttered his optics, venting heavily as the sensors in his chevron picked up the feather-light pressure of Optimus’ fingertips, stroking along the edges of the metal. There was a gentle press of lips against his own, the shy flick of a glossa requesting entrance, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth, a needy moan swallowed as Optimus claimed him fully. He arched up, seeking more even as his external plating scraped against Optimus’ chest, individual plates fluttering with surrender, valve calipers relaxing around the intruding spike stretching him wide.

Submission was a rare thing for Ratchet, and although each time it took hours of convincing to allow him to let down his guard enough to accept it, the result was something sublime. He was on his back on the rough concrete floor of his own quarters, completely covered by Optimus’ huge frame. If he’d onlined his optics at that moment, he knew, he’d see nothing but the gentle blue light from their optics lighting up their faces, islands in pitch darkness. Proximity sensors were useless; Optimus was so close he was _inside_ Ratchet, and nothing could top that, _nothing_. 

Optimus moved, grinding his hips against Ratchet’s with deliberate slowness, slipping out of him a fraction then slowly, like the passing of ages, thrusting back in. Later he would go faster, their coupling turning rough, wild with restrained desires, but for now Ratchet’s surrender was eggshell-thin. Optimus knew it—he wouldn’t push, not until he knew Ratchet could take it.

Ratchet’s reaction was small, weak. He clutched at Optimus’ shoulders, valve clenching down in welcome, alight with electricity. Optimus broke their kiss and he heard himself moan, a high soft noise more like a whimper than anything he was used to. His fans were stuck open so wide it felt like they were never going to close, sucking in cool air along with Optimus’ own hot exvents, fevered systems gasping. They were so close, too close, and yet even as he thought of struggling, pushing Optimus away he bent his legs, hooking them around the backs of Optimus’ thighs, locking them together. His spark spun so hot with ready arousal it ached—which was impossible, they had no sensornet with which to ache, but it somehow did.

“You know me,” Optimus murmured, mouth ghosting along the surface of his audials, hips scribing a little thrust against Ratchet. “I will not force you to submit. That,” he continued, and Ratchet felt his lips curve in a wry smile, “you’ll do yourself.”

Ratchet writhed, couldn’t help crying out.”Yeees,” he gasped, thin and reedy in agreement. Inside him, subconscious fear at such vulnerability warred with absolute faith—he trusted Optimus, trusted him with his life. There wasn’t any greater expression of that trust than this.

The first real thrust made him arch up; the second tore a desperate moan from his vocaliser, his spark singing out for Optimus. The third was gentle, terrible, metal scraping along wet metal deep inside him and _oh Primus_ the electric connection lit him up inside like a star, neural net made sensitive there by lack of use. The fourth built him up to a thundering climax and the fifth tipped him over the edge, pleasure cascading down through him like an avalanche. He sobbed through it, choked gasps and frame pouring heat and sensation until it felt as though he ought to melt.

Optimus held him until the shaking stopped. 

\--++--++--

_ix. not now, i’m trying to pay the bills_

The horrible thing about dealing with humans for any length of time was the bureaucratic nightmare they termed ‘paperwork’. Signatures, verifications, wait time, Primus please have mercy…

Ratchet bit back a groan and resisted the urge to rub his temples. Optic-strain was a terrible thing.

The PDF file blinked up at him from the datapad screen, innocently devilish. It concerned requisitions, badly-needed supplies they’d for the last two and a half years had to beg from the US government. As the one who made use of them nine times out of ten, Ratchet was in charge of acquiring the parts and raw materials he needed to continue his never-ending list of repairs. Optimus had offered to help a few times, but Ratchet had always refused; their Prime had enough of his own work needing done. 

It wasn’t as if he was incapable of getting it done himself. Ratchet could do it, alright—if was just a painful process, dragging on and out until he thought he’d go insane staring at the same word for hours on end. Ratchet had been built for images, diagrams, with an engineer’s spatial processor and need for precision. Words—particularly English words—did not have that precision. 

Hence the fierce processor ache now pounding through his higher thought protocols.

Heavy steps on the concrete floor let him know he was no longer alone. The first tendrils of a familiar field washed along his back, his proximity sensors pinging on the long-legged shape of his trespasser. Optimus paused in the Ops doorway, field shivering enticingly just out of Ratchet’s reach. He remained silent, unusually so, but Ratchet felt the weight of his attention on his shoulders like a physical touch.

Ratchet straightened, squaring his shoulders and glaring down at the datapad with heated resolve. He was going to _finish_ this, by Primus! No room for failure, no room for error! No primitive bureaucracy was going to get the best of him.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, a little twist in his field which might just have been sympathetic amusement. Ratchet twitched.

“I am endeavouring to finish these important documents _before_ we run out of supplies,” he replied, hunching over the datapad and turning his head to glare owlishly at the Prime. “Whatever plans you’re hoping to rope me into performing will just have to wait, I’m afraid.”

“In fact I came to ask you if you would prefer some help.” Optimus pushed away from the doorframe and came to stand just behind Ratchet, hands drifting up to slip underneath the medic’s shoulder plating, stroking stress from his cables. Ratchet opened his mouth to protest, but the soothing pressure stole his words. “I know you prefer to fill out these sorts of records yourself, but perhaps there is some other way I can assist.”

Another effort to talk resulted in blissful silence. Ratchet straightened, subconsciously pressing back against those deft hands, the beginnings of a content moan gathering in his vocaliser. Yeeees, he could get used to that.

“I suppose,” he said at last. Keep doing that, and he could forgive Optimus anything. 

\--++--++--

_x. okay, now is good._

It was late in the night—very late. Too late, in Ratchet’s highly professional opinion. There was one single circumstance under which he did not mind being kept awake so late, and this had to be it.

Optimus caught him by the waist as he began to wobble, propping him up against the wall and kissing him, lips and glossa thick with the sharp taste of Ratchet’s own transfluid. The shockwaves of a powerful overload still eddying through his circuits, Ratchet nevertheless had enough coordination to respond, mouth opening and glossa sliding against Optimus’, a strange wonder in tasting the metallic residue of his own pleasure in Optimus.

Fingers stroked along his grill, little metal scrapes that zinged through his oversensitised neural net, straight back into interface protocols as an invitation for another round. _Yes_ , Ratchet thought intently, sliding his servos up to the cables of Optimus’ neck, one going further to his prominent audials, stroking as he deepened the kiss. _Want you, want to bury myself in you, right to the hilt._ Lips pressed, almost painfully; their glossas tangled, forceful and desired.

Optimus broke it first, never retreating more than an inch. He pressed his forehelm against Ratchet’s, crest to chevron, and the last little streel of metal-laced fluid connecting their mouths broke. “Was it worth it?” he rumbled, the waves of his voice transmitted through their chestplates pressed against each other. He was bent over, leaning down to match his height to Ratchet’s and it should have been awkward but somehow was just too right.

“Worth it,” Ratchet managed, wanting to offline his optics and rest for a moment but unwilling to look out of Optimus’ gaze. “Definitely.” 

\--++--++--

 _xi. let me show you all the ways i love you_

They ended up in Ratchet’s quarters again. “You may as well just move in,” Ratchet snarked, unable to resist a little pointed teasing even as he pushed Optimus back against the wall and let his servos move with wicked intent. Optimus had a bunch of easily-accessible sensitive spots on his abdomen, a ring of them around the warped scar left in his protoform by a certain warlord’s blade. Plating fanning out around the old injury, the Prime hummed a blissful lover’s refrain as Ratchet’s fingers delved into him, deft touches calculated to set his neural net alight. His abdominal port irised open on its own, the tips of his jacks sliding free of their housings.

“I may do just that,” Optimus sighed through the song, one hand pulling Ratchet up to kiss him soft and gentle. His other stroked over Ratchet’s side, digits coaxing open Ratchet’s own digital interface panel. Ratchet caught his wrist before he could do much else, slipping his fingers down around Optimus’ and pressing their joined hands against the sensitive connector ports. Pressure alone made his neural net cry out there, bright notifications running through his interface protocols as tight pleasure. He moaned through the kiss as Optimus plugged into him, flagging through the connection programs and gasping as their awareness crashed into each other.

 _/I’m sorry I made you wait,/_ Ratchet thought through the connection, a wash of foreign tactile data making him shudder and press against Optimus. _/I always do./_

Optimus walked them backwards, slowly, carefully, his lips smiling against Ratchet’s. _/I don’t consider time spent waiting for you to be wasted at all. Your life is your own, with events and pursuits unique to you. It is my honour to be part of it, and that does not change even when you are not with me or I am not with you. Occasionally you need your space, and that is the least I can give you. You’ve always come back to me when it mattered, even when I myself believed I did not deserve it. For that, I owe you my deepest love./_

Careful manoeuvring set them down on the berth. Optimus first sat, then drew his legs up, spreading them, allowing Ratchet to kneel and then lay between his thighs. The heady vibration of his engine as it ticked over into a higher gear spread through his plating up and into Ratchet. Ratchet’s interface protocols blazed, seizing control of his autonomics. Leaning up, he kissed Optimus again, lips clashing rough this time, one servo on Optimus’ hip and the other groping between their legs. 

_/Open up,/_ he commanded. Approving desire radiated through the hardline; Optimus obeyed.

\--++--++--

_xii. it’s okay to let go sometimes_

Ratchet moved, hips pressing home in one smooth, sharp thrust. Underneath him Optimus let his helm fall to the side, optics wide, bright and unfocused, lips spelling a short sentence over and over again as his body shifted and adjusted around Ratchet. His vocaliser spilled a short burst of static as Ratchet’s fingers tightened around his thighs, metal squeaking and grinding against the pressure as Ratchet tried to ground himself somewhere outside of the tight wet heat surrounding his spike. Interface circuits connected, electricity flowing, tactile sensation rushing back and forth over the hardline between them.

He shook his helm, rebooting his optics as a flash of white pleasure left pixelated artifacts over his field of vision. Optimus’ servos clutched at his hips, black fingers tight enough to leave chromonanite scrapes on his plating. He shifted, sharp movement jarring his spike in Optimus’ valve. Adjusting his grip on the Prime’s thighs, he hauled them up, out, legs wrapping around his waist too high to give much leverage. He felt it in his own legs as Optimus passed the tactile data to him, the awkward angle and the burning stretch of a much-beloved spike in his valve. _Yes_ , a data packet said, punctuated by emotional files that made Ratchet’s spark whirl bright when he opened them. _Love you._

Ratchet recognised with an immediate thrill the word Optimus was repeating: _Ratchet,_ over and over, in time with the tightening of his valve around Ratchet’s invading spike.

With one hand he collected Optimus’ limp wrists, bringing them up to rest above his helm. Wordlessly Optimus looked up at him, a shallow breathy moan as he drew one down, knuckles pressed against his lips. “Ratchet,” he said, and again for good measure, his valve pulsing this time with purpose, calipers constricting not all at once but in a wave, from the roof to the entrance, clutching at Ratchet’s spike. _/Want to feel you overload in me,/_ he shared through hardline. _/Use me, take your pleasure from me./_ In short, clipped glyphs, _/I’m yours./_

The power flooded Ratchet all at once, truth following in its footsteps. He wondered, in the short time it took his interfacing protocols to act on Optimus’ permission, if this was how it had gone in times past, when the ancient Primes had borne the Matrix as Optimus did now. Bearing down on him and thrusting hard into that wet, welcoming valve, feeling Primus’ elect arch and cry out beneath him, body tightening and releasing in electric ecstasy… it could get addicting, he mused in the astrosec between peak and overload, at last burying himself inside Optimus and remaining there, his own stiff shout joining Optimus’. The pressure inside him released, his spark turning in stellar pleasure, and he felt it as his transfluid flooded into Optimus, mechanisms drawing it upwards into inert gestational systems to go to waste. _No newspark to feed,_ he thought, intellectual systems waiting for emotional centres to recover. _Maybe someday._

 _/Maybe,/_ Optimus agreed, humming softly through the aftershocks of his climax, legs relaxing and falling open around Ratchet, servos slipping around Ratchet’s waist. _/For now, thank you. For everything./_

\--++--++--


End file.
